Hero
by Constant Distraction
Summary: I knew I did not want to be a hero. I also knew I had no choice. Hector reflects on the innocence that was robbed from him as he became a hero. HA, rated for violence.


Hero

A/N: This was just one of those stories that was half-done when it got stuck in the back of my writing binder and neglected until now. It's been completely revised, and it kind of ties in with my stories _Traitor _and _Destruction of Innocence_, at least they all have a common thread. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Thunder rings through the palace as soon as I open the door. The few servants loitering in the halls scatter as they see me, knowing the storm they hear is no doing of Zeus; it is only I, in my state of fury. The servants are fortunate to know when to avoid me, making it easy for me to ignore them all. When I come to a familiar wooden door, I pause only long enough to fling it open. Tearing my helmet off as I enter, I slam it onto its stand, then fumble with the clasps on my breastplate. My angry hands will not cooperate, though, and the clasps stay shut. Frustrated, I drop to the floor and lean back against the wall. With a tightly curled fist, I beat the ground once, letting out a growl as I do.

The only occupant of the room has her back toward me. Andromache calmly finishes tying the cheery yellow cloth she is weaving, then glances over her shoulder at me. "Are you hurt?" she asks.

I should have known she would be infuriatingly calm. I fix her in a glare-she rarely gives in to my temper. "No," I snarl. It's a lie. One of the barbarians I was fighting slammed his dull axe into my bicep, and some of my flesh is a throbbing, mutilated mess. Andromache takes one look at the crimson wound and turns away from her loom. She doesn't bother to chide me or offer words of comfort. The woman purposefully gives me nothing to argue with.

She takes a clean strip of cloth and dips it into the steaming water basin; she must have anticipated my return and called for the water. _Say something, Andromache. Anything. And I will scream about the enemies' tactics, and tell you they have no honor. _She swipes at the blood on my arm, taking extra care to be gentle. Even that hurts. I hiss and snatch my am away, angling my body away as a protective measure.

"Stop," I snarl, knowing exactly how childish I am acting.

"A wonderful idea, Hector. I'll let the wound fester, and you'll never be able to use your arm again," she retorts angrily. I find a small measure of satisfaction in her anger,but a greater part of me is immediately sorry that I made her angry. I can see she's considering her threat, just for a moment, by the way she bites her lip and narrows her eyes. But she raises the red-streaked cloth in her hand and begins washing my wound again. I press one hand hard against the floor, as if that will stem the white-hot rivers of pain. It doesn't.

"How many men did you lose?" Andromache asks quietly, much less irritated than she was a minute ago. I, however, am still glowering. She is intuitive. She has hit on what will haunt me.

"Too many." At least speaking helps keep my mind off the pain. "Hundreds of sons, and fathers, and brothers."

Her eyes flicker to my face before focusing on the gruesome wound again. "But you were victorious. You are a hero, my love."

I hate that word. It stirs up embers of old discoveries, when I was still naïve. When I still had the chance to be innocent. "Hero. Yes, we prevented the raiders from stealing our hoards of treasure, if that is what you mean. Perhaps we should fill all the golden goblets with the blood of young soldiers, then. We can use the flames from their funeral pyres to melt metal for more bangles. I know you love bangles, Andromache. I imagine the family of the soldiers will mourn, but giving them jewels should—"

"_Stop,"_ Andromache cries shrilly, throwing down the rag. She is glaring at me as she backs away. On closer inspection, I see tears in her eyes. Guilt begins to gnaw through the unyielding armor of fury I wear, but she speaks before I can apologize. "They lost their lives to protect what they love! And you-- you led them out to their deaths! It isn't as if you have no part…" she trails off, aware she's gone too far. She blinks away her tears as she stoops to pick up the rag. Timidly, she dips in back in the basin to cleanse it and return to my arm. "I am sorry," she murmurs. But I cannot accept her apology.

"No," I say bitterly. The fire of my injured arm combined with her painfully accurate words is threatening to send me back into memories I do not want to relive. But I owe her an explanation. "I never should have been a commander."

"Hector," she starts to protest, but I cut in.

"I also never had a choice." I know I have been defeated; I will relive my hated memories with Andromache. My resolve is broken, and the moments I swore I would never think of again are coming back to me now, in bright, vivid colors, and sickeningly warm blood.

* * *

I was five summers old when my mother took me up to the walls to see my first battle. She had woken me early that morning with regret in her eyes, saying, "Hush, little one. Your father wants you to see something."

I rubbed my fists against my tired eyes, trying to leave the hazy realm of sleep. "And Paris?" I asked, ever curious about my newborn brother.

"No, love. Just you. Come, we'll get you dressed and go to the walls."

That caught my attention. I loved visiting the walls. Mother would pick me up so I could see over the plains of Troy, to the ships in the harbor and the fields of grain, all the way to where the sparkling sea met the sky. But there were times when I was not allowed on the walls; I could not visit them when the 'bad men' came.

This was one of those times. If I had known what I was going to see, and how it would affect me, I would have shut my eyes and gone back to sleep. I would have drifted back into the child-like innocence I was entitled to.

But I obeyed Mother, allowing her to choose clothes for me and help me into them. She slipped leather sandals onto my feet and took my hand as we walked down to the lower city. Fatigue seeped into my muscles before we had gone very far, and I wanted nothing more than to be carried.

"Mother," I whined, but she only gave my hand a squeeze.

"It's only a bit farther," she assured me, so I swallowed the rest of my request and trudged along. If I complained anymore, I feared she would take me back to the palace.

It seemed that an eternity of vaguely familiar walls and tired legs passed before we reached the walls. Mother led me up the stairs with reluctance even a child could recognize, though I did not comprehend it. We reached the wide platform built on the walls for royalty. Already it was crowded with my father's eldest advisors, dressed in richly embroidered tunics instead of armor. I waved to them happily, for I liked these men. They always ruffled my hair and told me stories of great heroes, like Theseus and Heracles.

Not one of the advisors returned my wave. They all looked over the parapet, but I could not see what held their attention, for I was not tall enough tolook over it. I had no time to be confused, for Mother knelt down andstared into my eyes, her deep hazel orbs commanding my full attention. "Listen to me, Hector," she said calmly, her grip on my arm controlling. "What do men call your father, besides 'king'?"

I wondered why Mother had chosen to ask such a question, but I readily joined in the game. "A hero," I replied, confident in my answer. Mother smiled, but the widening of her thin lips did not reach her eyes.

"A hero," she repeated. "And your father has asked me to tell you a secret." She paused here, probably struggling with her own doubts. "He wants you to be a hero, too."

"Like Theseus?" I asked excitedly. This gift of my father's was almost too much to accept. I was going to be a hero, and for a moment, that word was as clean as polished marble. It was not stained by glory, or betrayal, or stolen lives. It was a lie.

"Like Theseus and Dardanus," Mother agreed absently. "But first you must see something, love." With that, she wrapped her arms around my torso and lifted me up. Settling me on her hip, she pointed out over the plains of Troy.

She did not need to point, for my attention was already captured. From below there came a steady scream; upon listening closer, I learned it was made up of thousands of sounds. It was composed of the clattering of swords and shields, the splintering of spears, the groans of hardworking men and the cries of the unlucky soldiers. The scene was far too complicated for my young eyes. Men moved in a writhing mass of bronze and flesh, and too often those two became one. I picked out one scene to watch among the confusing melee. I saw a tall, gigantic warrior with a plumed helmet wielding a menacing sword. I recognized him immediately for what he was: a hero. This man fit the images my mind had conjured of Theseus and the other men of legendary status.

In a split second my glorious illusions fell with the man's sword. As he came upon those who opposed him, he simply cut them down and walked over the bodies. Blood formed puddles that soaked into the sand. I watched in utter horror as the warrior sliced upward through an enemy's stomach, and the man's innards tumbled to the ground. The next man's throat was slit in a deep gash, and the third received a spear to his groin. The strangled cry of agony nearly made me scream as well.

"Mother," I whimpered, turning my head from the terrifying scene. I squeezed my eyes shut as I buried my head under her chin. "I want to go home."

A firm hand caught my cheek. She turned my head back toward the battle! "No, Hector," she said authoritatively, and I could not fathom her cruelty. "You must see this. Our men are keeping these raiders from stealing our treasure. You'll be a hero someday, just like them."

My innocence was stolen from me as the battle raged, and death clung to the air. I shook my head in denial, unable to voice the incredible frustration I felt. After all, I was only a child.

I knew I did not want to be a hero.

I also knew I had no choice.

* * *

At eleven years old, the terror I felt during that battle returned to me, for it was time for me to truly become a warrior. My father had put my cousin Aeneas and I under the tutelage of a fine but brutal soldier, Hyrtacus, since we were seven summers old. With the loss of my naivety came a strong understanding of military strategy. Often Father would give me a hypothetical situation, as we stood in his council room with a few advisors.

"Let's say the raiders come in through the Hellespont, five thousand men strong," he would start, rattling off more specifics as they came to him. And I would reply with exactly how the troops should be led. He would challenge me by responding as the opposing army might, making me change my plans. But these conversations always ended with Father beaming at me, as I explained a strategy that was foolproof to ensure our victory. Amidst the advisors' "Well done, my boy!" Father would say, "It won't be that easy on the battlefield, mind you. But you'll do well."

For four years, I had let myself be trained and praised, groomed into a brilliant soldier for my age. I no longer felt repulsed by the thought of war. Numbness had dulled my hatred of battles. Father had gone through much effort to make war a way of life for me, even before I took part in it. I heard the tales, I knew the strategies, and I was familiar with the weapons. All that remained was for my skill to be tested.

That chance came when proving myself was the last thing on my mind. On a hot, calm afternoon, I was with Paris in the stables, determined to erase his fear of horses. I leaned my arms against the gate of my father's favorite mare, resting my head on my hands. I was tall for my age, tall enough to reach forward and stroke the horse's neck. I did so, as Paris watched worriedly.

"See, Paris? She will not hurt you."

"It's so big," Paris said fearfully, one hand gripping the cloth of my peplos. His wide eyes were absent of the mischief they normally held; the boy was truly frightened. I acknowledged his fear but did not share it. I loved the beasts, and desperately wanted my brother to see how wonderful they were.

"Stop calling her 'it,' brother. She _is _big, but she isn't mean. Here, I'll lift you and you can pet her."

"Hector!" Paris protested. "I don't want to!"

I sighed. Forcing him to face his fear would do no good. "All right. You do not have to pet her yet. But someday you'll have to learn to control a horse." I halted my lecturing as one of my father's messengers sprinted into the stables. Seeing me, the worried expression on his face faded.

"Prince Hector. The king summons you to the council room immediately," he stated, and continued in a slightly less formal vein. "There are raiders in the harbor, three ships full of pirates who refuse to pay the docking fee. King Priam will lead the men against them."

And he wanted to take me. It was my chance to prove that all my training would pay off.

"Paris, go back to Mother," I ordered, taking off at a brisk walk through the stables. Paris hurried after me, struggling to keep up.

"But you said you would take Deiphobus and Ilione and I to the tower," he reminded me, his sense of justice overpowering the urgency of the moment.

"I will take you tomorrow," I said. "Tell Deiphobus and Ilione the plans have changed." Paris' lips sank into a pout, and I felt I had to comfort him. "Go see if Helenus and Cassandra are awake. Try to teach them to speak," I instructed him. "Now go!"

He flounced off, angry with me. I was too nervous to care. I met my father in the council room. He was already adorned in shining armor, and he had mine brought to me.

"Dress quickly," he commanded, and I hastened to obey. The armor had been custom made for my small body, for we had no armor that would fit a boy of eleven years. "We must cut the raiders off near the Scamander," Father instructed. "You are coming. You will go where I tell you to go, and you will obey my every word. Do you understand?"

I was in the process of fastening the straps on my breastplate. "I understand," I answered solemnly. "Where is Aeneas?"

"He will not be coming," Father answered, and immediately a heavy seed of worry planted itself in my chest. Aeneas and I had undergone all our training together. How could Father expect me to fight my first battle without him? I had no time to ask, for in the heat of the impending battle, my father was sharp-tongued and impatient. As soon as the rest of my armor was on, he barked at me to follow him, and we rushed to the Scaean Gate. Two hundred soldiers had gathered there, all in various stages of readiness. Some had all their armor on with weapons in their hands, while others still struggled with their greaves or armguards. Father gave them a moment to ready themselves, but he paced and sighed forcefully.

"These pirates have refused to pay our fee and have made themselves ready to try and get within our walls!" he shouted to his men. "We will block them at the Scamander River. Archers at the rear. Meletios," he called to a fully attired solider, beckoning him closer. He was at least a decade older than me, with a white scar across his brow. "Stay near the back of the ranks of spearmen with my son."

Meletios nodded, and I reluctantly followed him. One part of me was glad to have a bodyguard, for I was frightened out of my wits. But having someone assigned to protect me seemed almost like cheating.

"Just be cautious, my prince," Meletios advised. The impenetrable gate gave a groan as six men shoved it open. At a resounding battle cry from my father's throats, the stampede began. All two hundred men went flying through the gate, forming rough ranks as we ran across the plain. War cries rose up to the clouds; I was sure every god on Olympus was watching. I had to run as hard as I could too keep up with the mass of bloodthirsty men.

I did not see our enemies; the warriors ahead of me blocked my vision. I heard their yells, though, and as I heard them I was glad to have a bodyguard. I was terrified, drowning in a fear that threatened to paralyze me. Then there came a shrieking crunch as armor collided with armor. Our armies met. There were enemies just in front of me!

"Easy!" Meletios shouted over the roar of the battle. Shrill cries of arrows sounded overhead. I swallowed and tried to dispel the knot of fear in my stomach. Seeing a battle from the walls was horrifying, but never in my wildest dreams could I imagine the fear of actually being in one.

"This way!" Meletios said, and I followed him like a lost hound. We made our way to the edge of the ranks, stepping over bodies. I slouched in my armor, feeling completely unprotected. There they were- raiders.Now there was no time for reassurance or comforting words. Meletios plunged into the fight, defending me. I hid behind him, trembling, my sword held at the ready. Never had I felt more cowardly.

Two men attacked my bodyguard at once. His face was set in grim determination, with sparks in his eyes. He whirled on the first, nearly slicing his blade into the man's groin. The second man put a stop to that. With a spear resting in his confident hand, he plunged it through Meletios'chest.

I let out a startled cry, mourning his death as well as the loss of my protection. But then the first man was advancing on me. There was no time for fear. I rushed forward, adrenaline pulsing through my veins and lending me courage. My hands did not shake, and the hilt of the sword felt entirely natural in my grasp. Somehow the wild fear in my heart translated into bitter, deadly arcs of my sword. My observation skills were sharpened; I knew exactly where my enemy's sword was going in the split second he decided it. I blocked his first blow with a powerful sweep of my blade. Before I knew what I was doing, the glinting bronze disappeared into the tender flesh of the man's sinewy neck.

His brown eyes bulged as the blood cascaded down, bubbling and frothing like a river. I ripped my sword from this throat, staring in disbelief as he collapsed to the sand, dead.

I killed my first man. His blood was soaking into my sandals. The knot of fear in my stomach changed quickly, erupting from my mouth as vomit. I was still vulnerable, the lone boy in the midst of the battle. But I could barely move. I trembled like a leaf in the constant wind of Troy.

"Hector!" I could not respond to my father's voice. The sour taste of bile was too fresh in my mouth; the man's dying breath too fresh in my mind. I felt Father's arm jerk me back, and that was where I stayed, protected, until the end of the battle.

When it was over, he wiped the sweat from his brow and pried my fingers from my sword, where they held it as though in a death-grip. "You've done well, my boy," he said, pride clear in his voice. I did not respond. "It gets easier," he said. I suppose he meant his words to be comforting, but they were anything but. "You grow accustomed to it. You'll grow numb to killing."

_No, _I thought. _Never. I will not let it become a routine; something so normal it is no longer important. It is important. I just stole a life. _

And I would never be his 'boy' again. I had fought, defended, and killed. I was a man. My destiny was sealed.

I would be a hero.

* * *

My voice trails off into a heavy silence. Andromache finishes tying a bandage around my arm. "I am sorry," she says quietly. "I was always taught that heroes do not fear…"

"And seek only victory, no matter what the cost," I finish for her. I wait to see what words she has to remedy this.

But some wounds cannot be healed so easily. Some scars are too deep to be touched. Andromache has no words. Instead, she lays a soft kiss atop the bandage, then presses her cheek to my shoulder, snaking one arm around my torso. I close my eyes.

No, these wounds will not heal. I will never be fearless or achieve detachment from my emotions in battle.

I cannot change what I am.

I am a hero.

* * *

That's all for now, folks. Kudos to those of you who spotted the 'Haunted By Bliss' reference in the last section! Thanks for reading!


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